


tears from the hardest hearts

by landiskilgore



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/M, Forgive Me, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Langley - Freeform, Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Unresolved Tension, au where bell is dead but doesn't realize it, based this loosely off of lost, bell has a cat and likes mixtapes and thomas harris novels, gets real sad towards the end, highly recommend it, kinda sad, red is a prominent colour theme here, sorry - Freeform, stanley parable vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28971864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landiskilgore/pseuds/landiskilgore
Summary: "There will never be a world in which this is right."words are like pale shadows of forgotten namesas names have power, words have powerwords can light fires in the minds of menwords can wring tears from the hardest hearts- Patrick Rothfuss, "The Wise Man's Fear"
Relationships: Eleazar "Lazar" Azoulay/Helen A. Park, Russell Adler/Bell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	tears from the hardest hearts

**Author's Note:**

> my very first contribution to ao3! first off, thank you for entertaining this fic, it's not my greatest but ahh i made it this far lmao SO to kinda sum up: it's lighthearted, then gets dark, then it gets a lil emotional at the end. i based this loosely off the show Lost (ughh it's so amazing and strange but i love it XD), especially towards the end scene (literally right down to the concert too, lmao im so sorry)
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoy, please feel free to leave comments/requests for me, i'd love to get working on more stories so don't be shy :) enjoy the rollercoaster ride!

tears from the hardest hearts

**there will never be a world in which this is right.**

* * *

**Fairfax County, Virginia - January 5th, 1981**

_There will never be a world in which this is right._

Before last night, those words were obscure figments of a dream, one of a world where the snow sticks to the ground and chaos rules the skies. Looking through the lens of a red-saturated kaleidoscope, twinkling dimly, as if life were draining from the world.

Someone unknown... someone _familiar_... pressing the barrel of a gun to her chest, whispering those words that rattle her with such fervor, even if it shouldn't.

A fervor that awoke her with a fury, sweat breaking out across her temple, heart roaring against the fissure of her ribcage and... _hurt?_

_How could something as weightless as air cause such discomfort?_

Words hold no meaning unless you allow it, something her mother would whisper against her ear at dusk, with the warmth of flames at her back, a soothing hand speaking immeasurable kindness pressing into her cheek.

It shouldn't hurt, but it does.

A pair of knuckles rap against the door leading into her tiny cubicle at Langley—a career that isn't satisfying, but keeps food on the table and her cat fed—belonging to those of a coworker whose name is lost on he, wearing a silly little grin that screams _mischief._

"Gonna keep staring at that book, are you?"

A recent addition to her tiny library next to her desk, something a friend gifted her over the holidays— _Red Dragon_ , with its signature creature across a red background.

_Red. Of course, it's red._

"Rough night?"

Setting the book in its rightful place on her shelf—right next to her latest mixtape from the records store and a little plant she received from her mother, something blue from back home. "I'll be fine," she says, even if it is a lie.

"Got a new mixtape, did you? What's the latest?"

"Pink Floyd," she replies, forcing an unwanted smile, "I've been saving for a Fleetwood Mac vinyl, but I'm not quite there yet."

He smiles at her like he's holding a thousand forbidden secrets and none of which she's particularly inclined to discover. "You'll get there. Well, time's a-wasting."

_There will never be a world in which this is right._

Tormenting, haunting, clawing its way through an aspirin and an hour's worth of pencil-pushing, crunching numbers together and stringing sentences along with as much concentration as a sloth climbing up a tree. Tedious and slow... it's only Thursday. And yet, it all circles back to the same words, to the voice that is equal parts dangerous and _intimate_ , which makes it all so confusing and keeps her wondering.

Intimate; like an old friend whose grieving a terrible loss—it is so distinct, yet there are blank gaps in her memory, memories of the dream that could've rationalized how she recognizes the supposed old friend, come to put an end to her life without rhyme or reason.

_What horrible thing could she have done to die like that?_

Hours string together until time becomes irrelevant, at which point Stephanie (an analyst and avid day-time drinker, especially on her lunch breaks) bids her goodnight, and she realizes it's half past the end of her shift, horrified at how lost in time she was. Coat haphazardly thrown on and in the midst of simultaneously wrapping her scarf—made of a beautiful royal blue material, her mother's parting gift—and putting her mixtape and _Red Dragon_ novel in her bag, she stumbles towards the elevator.

Of course, her delay results in the doors closing, which forces her to a light sprint across the office, calling out to whoever is kind enough to wait on her.

"Wait, please hold the door!"

Running at breakneck speed, not slowing down even as she realizes far too late that _the doors are opening_ until she collides with a very solid something, smelling faintly of nicotine and wearing sunglasses that are impossible to miss on a good day.

Her cheeks are flustering a dangerous scarlet, making eye-contact with one of the few clandestine officers that happen to visit Langley—can only mean something important.

_And she doesn't even know his name._

Hoping to God he doesn't know her, doesn't take her unprofessional sprint into his chest as offensive and subsequently have her fired within the hour, she clears her throat and says with hopeful consideration, "I am so sorry, I-I didn't see you—"

"—Nothing to worry about, miss."

Just as it did in the early hours of dawn, those stupid words reverberating in her mind, her heart is racing faster than her mind can keep up with, too embroiled in the embarrassment of practically _slamming_ into a coworker, much less a coworker's _chest._

It can't get any worse, can it?

He turns to her, eyes hidden beneath the smokescreen of his sunglasses. "Where to?"

_Do not stutter this time. Show some form of professionalism._

"... Going down," she mutters, and a war has been declared in her mind, two voices raging over whether she is foolish or just an embarrassment. Or both. If he's confused, he's excellent at hiding it, pressing the button going down to the lobby—which is exactly what she should've told him instead of _going down_ like something out of a Bond movie (not that she's seen one, as of late).

And yet... _she's_ confused as to why _he's_ here.

Clandestine officers don't concern themselves with the inner workings of her floor—for all intents and purposes, her job is utterly obsolete in the grand scheme of what truly matters in the CIA, like the conflicts with Russia, President Reagan, that god-awful hostage crisis she overheard Stephanie gossiping about...

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes with a label she doesn't recognize, situating one between his teeth and pausing briefly. "Do you mind?" He asks her, to which she fervently shakes her head—although part of her wonders if he would've smoked it regardless. Then, he offers one to her, and she has to remind herself of Dr. Trager's exact words: no smoking.

_He could easily ruin her career, yet he's offering a cigarette. Common courtesy, right?_

It's a strange sensation, putting something that has the power to kill her slowly and unforgiving between her lips, and yet not feeling an ounce of dread over that very real possibility. A yellow flame flickering from a distinct, silver Zippo lighter. Is he a veteran? She's only ever seen combat vets own Zippo lighters.

Company policy is to forgo smoking until you're _outside_ of the building.

Not one for arbitrary rule-breaking, yet still indulging in it despite all reason not to, it's... exhilarating to break them, even for a rule as minute as cigarette breaks.

"Don't think I've seen your face before," he suddenly says, smoke wafting in the compartmentalized space, aggravating her lungs, "you're an analyst?"

Despite working primarily with analysts like day-drinker Stephanie and the man with a thousand-secret smile, her work doesn't entail it. It's number-crunching, yes, but her prerogative in languages and cryptography keeps her busier than the others.

_He hasn't seen her face before?_

Perhaps she's of the forgettable sort, she secretly hopes.

"N-No, not exactly," she replies, feeling the immense urge to cough as she takes another light hit of her cigarette, "I'm just really good with computers and numbers, I guess."

_God, can this elevator ride be any more suffocating?_

Right on cue, they reach the ground level—warranting a level of caution on the off-chance her boss will see her breaking company policy—but the man beside her doesn't seem particularly bothered to comply with policy, so she doesn't feel like the world will implode and collapse beneath her feet just yet. Her hands cross awkwardly against the lower half of her coat-covered abdomen, one hand wrapping around the column of her wrist as she turns back to him.

"Thank you. For waiting on me... and I'm sorry for hitting you."

_Is he smiling?_

Cigarette between his lips, which she catches a glimpse of scars as evening sun reflects off his sunglasses through a nearby window, he _must_ be smiling.

"Nothing to worry about," he repeats from earlier, pausing halfway through, voice lowering amongst the scattered voices in the lobby, "take care, miss."

He goes towards the left, which if memory serves right, is out of the path of the exit, something she finds quite odd as she turns right and makes haste for the doors. Rules or not, a demotion isn't within her horizons today, especially with a boss like—

"Good, you're here. We have our scheduled flight for DC within the hour. And put that smoke out, Adler."

_Jason Hudson._

Just like the man in the elevator—Adler, as Hudson called him—Hudson doesn't work directly with her floor, however she _does_ work directly for _him_. Her penchant for languages and technology made her something _valuable_ , but not quite _irreplaceable_ , at least in Hudson's eyes. To make a bold assumption, she knows he hates her, although she's aware it isn't personal _—_ it has more to do with her circumstances leading to her career at Langley rather than any personal wrongdoing.

Hudson and the man in the elevator take their conversation elsewhere, away from prying eyes and lingering ears—a cue she immediately takes to leave.

Keys in hand, making way towards the parking lot, to her black Ford Galaxie—something she saved months' worth of money from side jobs and gigs when she first came here with her father years prior—she notices a blue Pontiac Bonneville, several spots to the left. Which _wasn't_ there upon arriving to work this morning.

Beautiful car, a classical at that. Must belong to one of the older employees, seeing as how none of her coworkers her age care much about older models.

Commuting home is easier when she's late, no traffic to worry about, just that new Billy Squier song since it's the latest thing the radio stations play, as of late. Anya immediately greets her at the door, complaining of an empty food bowl, black tufts of fur rubbing against her leg, meowing loudly. After re-filling Anya's bowl with kibble, settling on pizza delivery from that New York style (or so it claimed) place a few blocks over, she's got time to think. It's only 6:13 in the evening, anyways.

If only she were thinking about her Fleetwood Mac vinyl, so close yet so far.

No, it's not that simple. Instead, she's focusing on her door.

Her wooden door, something she disregards on a daily basis almost as much as she disregards her neighbor Mrs. Bowman, always asking for help with her telephone or her television (both of which are not computers or operate in a foreign language)... painted dark red.

Nothing of consequence, except her door _isn't dark red._

Or... maybe it is? Even if it's most likely nothing, a trick of her mind, everything about the past twenty-four hours has been anything _but_ nothing.

Her dream (too vividly real, too haunting to be nothing), the cigarette brand on the man's cigarette carton (which she should've recognized because everybody in her apartment building smokes _Marlboro Reds_ ), her _Red Dragon_ book with a **_red background—_**

Sudden, loud knocks at her door and Anya's responding meows startle her, enough to knock over a vase with lilacs on the table next to the couch, shattering instantly.

"O-One moment!" No time to waste, throwing a nearby tablecloth over the mess and putting Anya up in her bungalow, out of harm's way. She'll clean it up after her guest—hopefully just the pizza delivery—is down the hall, out of sight. Her delivery driver, a boy no older than eighteen and much taller than her, bringing the pizza box closer to her, only to falter upon noticing something she hasn't.

"Ma'am, are you alright? You're bleeding," voice shaking, just slightly.

_Bleeding?_

Crimson drips from her palm, settling atop her foot, has her utterly reeling at how _real_ it feels, even if there's no visible cut on her palm. Shakily thanking the boy for his concern, giving him thirty dollars (which is way above the price, not that she particularly cares), and beckoning him down the hall. Leaving the box on the table, settling back into the comfort of the couch, which ironically does little to comfort her.

_Something is wrong. Ascertainable, undeniable... something is wrong._

Spending the next few minutes eating in silence, terror plummeting in her throat, heart fervently pounding so hard, she's certain she can _hear_ it with how audaciously loud her pulse dares to be—and she hasn't cleaned up the broken glass yet.

Although she's terrified to even entertain the idea of sleep, it's her only option to escape whatever hellish madness is occurring.

Strange as it is, sleep finds her easier than she presumed, Anya curling up in a ball in her own little section of the bed.

* * *

_**It was never personal.** _

_Flashes of white light, brighter than the morning sun. And with it, searing pain imbues itself in her thoracic cavity, another burning sensation digging into her jugular as red warmth seeps through parted lips and trembling fingers._

_A silhouette blocking the sun's comforting warmth, bringing icy coldness that reminds her of home. A hand—unclothed, very real and so, so warm—touching her cheek._

_Pushing matted, brown hair away from her eyes... so she can **see.**_

_See the faceless structure of her murderer._

_Despite the bullets in her heart and throat, despite his hand being the one that brings her closer to death, he looks... sad? Is that the right word befitting her murderer?_

_How can someone be sad over taking a life?_

**_Heroes have to make sacrifices._ **

_Pain recedes with each harrowing breath she takes, giving way to a strange comfort in the face of death, preparing herself for the vast nothingness that surely comes with it. It's all she knows of death—there's not going to be angels at the gates, awaiting her arrival._

**_Do you think you will die with dignity here?_ **

_Her hand—shaking and soaked in her own blood—reaches for his cheek, warm scars under her gentle touch... almost leaning into her touch, yet stopping himself short. His hand takes hers, whispering hollow words against her skin. "No," he whispers._

**_She's of no use to us anymore._ **

_Thumb pressing soft circles against her knuckle, before curling her hand against her weeping chest, yet still keeping another hand against her cheek to keep her hair away from her eyes—to give her undivided access to look upon his unknown face._

_His voice... becomes distinct, familiar now... as do the words he whispers into her cheek._

**_"There will never be a world in which this is right."_ **

_And as he presses a final, solemn kiss to her forehead, giving way to allow the sun to shine on her for the last time, enveloping her in warmth... she thinks that this is a good way to die. Somewhere nostalgic, breathing life into memories long since forgotten._

_She's afraid he'll get her blood on his lips, stain his clothes. His heart, perhaps. Imprint her memory on the heart of a man who has chosen to abandon hers._

_Everything goes starkly white, ears ringing a cacophony of bells until... nothing._

_Light gives way to dark... life gives way to death._

**_Only a grave can cure a hunchback._ **

* * *

_Not into the grave just yet, it would seem._

Awaking to abrupt, high-pitched meows and an alarm clock reading **6:13** , she bristles at her forgetful memory, having left her drapes open before going to sleep. Her dream, as visceral and corporeal beyond that of an active imagination, rattling her soul, crushing her sinews and tendons into powder with no hopes of forgetting it... forgetting _him._

_His voice so close, yet his face remains a mystery._

Making way towards the kitchen, Anya in-tow and expecting a full bowl's worth of kibble for her efforts in waking her human; she puts her kettle on the stove, prepares a cup of coffee with the new brew she bought from the market last week. Barely bringing the steaming cup to her lips before noticing something truly _odd._

Her vase is intact.

Beautifully crafted, with such striking depths of red painting its outer layer, it's something blue from home... but it should be rendered into shards at her feet, a tablecloth haphazardly thrown over it, lilacs spilling onto the floor.

So, why is it intact? Red, poignant, sunflowers in harmony with the sun?

Well, she _did_ mention to Dr. Trager at a previous appointment about re-occurring sleep issues, it could easily be explained away as sleep-walking, perhaps.

Except she's never sleep-walked in her life. And that's not the strangest thing about her vase.

"Curious," she whispers, taking a lasting sip to distract herself from going mad.

Breakfast is short-lived, quickly delving into getting ready for work. A quick ten-minute shower, finding a hamper of clean laundry she remembers doing yesterday morning—finding a black skirt, pantyhose and a blouse, powder blue and dewy to the touch. Rather than leave Anya to rely on herself for another day, she decides to drop her off at Mrs. Bowman's, dropping off a bag of kibble and some sanitary items in case Anya doesn't fancy a different litterbox, waving goodbye on her way out of the building.

Traffic is slow, but what isn't at this hour?

Langley is bustling with life, all manner of people joining the masses. Amidst the crowd, she notices day-drinker Stephanie, evidently hiding a flask of whiskey in her purse upon noticing her approaching the elevator.

"Beautiful day, wouldn't you agree?" Stephanie asks, reeking of Scotch.

"Subjectively speaking, yes."

"Hudson's in Washington today. Means I can indulge in some spirits without worrying if I'll be scolded like a child with their hand in the cookie jar."

 _Not just Hudson_ , she thinks. The smoking man, with a voice that is impossible to forget—and sounding oh-so _familiar_ the longer she thinks of him, alarmingly so.

"A little birdy told me someone's got tickets to the Pink Floyd concert tonight," Stephanie remarks, voice on a dangerous precipice of teasing and mockery, "and who just so happens to have a brand new mixtape of their finest hits? I'd keep an eye out today, in case he asks you out. I wouldn't turn it down... God, that man is a dreamboat."

_Christ, could the elevator be any goddamn slower?_

Of course, it's only through good fortune and luck that the doors open, giving way for her to end the conversation (as abruptly as she pleases—damned if she does, damned if she doesn't), and step into the vacant space. And _of course_ , it's not that simple. It so happens to be that the chest she bumps into belongs to the one currently occupying her mind, which she immediately inwardly curses herself over it.

Behind her, the stifled giggles of day-drinker Stephanie serves to further prolong her misery, especially after the woman in question excuses herself to take the stairs just as the elevator doors come to a close like the sound of a pin dropping.

_His hands are on your arms, hishandsareonyourarms, **his hands—**_

"Good morning, stranger," he practically teases, a stupid smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, "going up, I assume?"

His hands are warm against her, nearly enveloping her biceps without even trying. And yet, despite how horribly _inappropriate_ the entire situation is, there's something... right(?) about how his hands feel against her blouse-covered arms. It's not like the movies, where there's a cathartic, electric fire, signifying the stars aligning and the silly concept of a _spark_ igniting between them. It just feels... like his hands are where they're supposed to be, like _he's_ right where he needs to be.

_And yet she still doesn't know his name._

As he reaches behind her, his fingers brush against the skin of her shoulder, left exposed by her blouse slipping down. A gentle touch, nothing of consequence—until it is.

_Searing pain imbues itself in her thoracic cavity._

_A silhouette blocking the sun's warmth, bringing icy coldness that reminds her of home._

_Light gives way to dark..._

**_There will never be a world in which this is right._ **

His touch brings dreams to life, rationalizes her pyrrhic nightmares. His voice speaks the language of trauma and violence, but above all else, above everything she's ever known and will ever know in her boring, inconsequential life—she **_remembers_** him.

There's no rationalizing it, no excusing it, there's nothing but absolute conviction at the forefront of her mind, as she starts to _**remember everything.**_

_**Da Nang. Vietnam. Red door.** _

_**Berlin. Safehouse. Television screens.** _

_**Anya. Sister. Scarred hand. Soviets. Red Dragon.** _

_**Smokescreen. Needle. Mind control.** _ _**Perseus.** _

_**Him. Her killer.** _

It's ascertainable, just as ascertainable as she was the night prior, as flashes and flashes of red clouds her vision, staining her hands, tainting her soul, even.

Her life is a _lie—_ coming from Russia with her father, adopting Anya, her career in Langley, it is a life she never experienced, but so desperately clung to the idea of. Of having a world, a place to call her own, vinyls to save up for, books to add to her library, someone to fall in love with and start a family with.

Ideas shattering under the white-hot agony of two bullets.

A traitorous, _loving_ hand covered in her blood, easing her journey to the other side.

_So if she's dead... where does that leave him?_

What was meant to be a slow, torturous day has become a waking nightmare that she cannot bear to end because it means she's **_dead_**. It means everything she ever experienced is a figment of her imagination, a cruel ironic ode to her pseudo dreams.

More real than anything she ever hoped to accomplish. All because of _him._

A man who held her with hands so gentle, who calls her stranger like they're long-lost friends indulging in an inside joke. A man who isn't aware of his own mortality, of being so out-of-place and who doesn't belong here as she does.

A man who's looking at her like he wishes to know her soul as profoundly as one can.

Elevator doors opening, bringing her back into a world that stretches beyond her thoughts, a confine of sorts—a bridge toeing the line of reality and fantasy. A final step towards her inevitable fate, no doubt. _Confusing what's real—_

There's a revolting truth lurking beneath the surface, an agonizing realization that if she tells him, if he dares to remember everything... nothing stands in his way from finishing the job.

He could choke (at least what's left) the life out of her, end her as easily as breathing.

_Not here._

Barely taking a step forward, eager to forget about her killer at her side until his hand reaches for her clothed arm, stopping her short.

"It's the strangest thing," he says, voice lowering just above a whisper—like he's doubting the words hanging on a thread, "I swear... I know you, don't I?"

A shake of her head, hoping her composure won't crack, that she's able to paint a story and sell it effectively. Hell, the man's a clandestine operative—he's used to lying and surrounding himself in the company of liars, what's to stop him from calling her bluff?

"I'm just really good with computers and numbers," she says, a subtle jab to their previous encounter the day before, and judging by his scowl, it's not enough. However he feels about it, she's already excusing herself from the space and making way towards her cubicle, fighting the incredible urge to look back, to see the elevator doors close and hope he hasn't followed her, nor decides to openly call her bluff.

A quick glance at the clock, and her blood runs cold.

**6:13 AM.**

* * *

**JFK Center, Washington DC - several hours later**

_She's not sure why she agreed to this._

Although she's well aware of how she's gotten to this point—the man with the secretive smile, later coming to know him as Lazar—knocking at her cubicle, just as Stephanie warned her of this morning at the elevators. Pink Floyd concert tickets in-hand and asking if she'd be delighted to join him and a group of his pals later that evening, as they had room for two more people.

Sincerely, she was hoping to forget _everything_ about the newfound revelations in the elevator, cuddle with Anya and watch a re-run of _the Jeffersons_ while eating leftover pizza.

Instead, she gave a half-enthused nod, even if she felt utter consternation at the idea.

Lazar gave her a time to be ready—considering herself an honest, woman-of-her-word type, she wasn't about to be rude and be late to something she was _invited to_ , and he came to her door exactly at the time he promised to be at. **6:13** on the dot. Gave her enough time to prepare, pay Mrs. Bowman to watch Anya once more, and find concert-worthy clothes, even if she's never been to one.

He failed to give her an idea of what concert outfits entail. So, she had to settle for a white top, jeans from the back of her closet held together with a worn leather belt, and just remembering to grab her black leather jacket for added warmth on her way out.

Nobody holds concerts outside in January—all the same, better safe than sorry.

As for Lazar's group of friends? Not the crowd she'd ever thought about going to concerts with (she's sure the sentiment is mutual), but they're... cordial. A lovely Englishwoman named Helen (an MI6 operative, she's been informed), who she's _definitely_ noticed sharing glances between herself and Lazar as they occupy the front seats of the car.

Sims doesn't prefer his first name, which is unusual, but who is she to judge? A Vietnam veteran with a penchant for cars—ironically older models.

Alex and Frank are the only ones who actively partake in conversation with her—it seems of genuine curiosity rather than forced necessity—and both are also veterans with their fair share of combat stories to outweigh Sims' adventures tenfold. Alex speaks fondly of his son, David (turns out he's just visiting from Alaska), and Sims speaks highly of a comrade he endured Vietnam with. Frank complains about Hudson (for once, she doesn't feel bad for laughing), wondering just how he crossed paths with Hudson.

In hindsight, she's not as dismal towards the idea of a good night out as she was hours earlier.

"A friend of mine's gonna meet up with us," Sims mentions as Lazar pulls into the lot, "he's the kinda guy to be fashionably late, but he shouldn't take too long."

"Bullshit, he's _always_ fuckin' late, Sims," Frank huffs.

As it turns out, they're the ones fashionably late to the concert. Twenty-five minutes into the first round of songs, nearing intermission. Smiling as she recognizes the sometimes nonsensical, upbeat tune of _Eclipse_ with lyrics that are the exact opposite, wanting to dance to her heart's content. A half-hour of pulsating beats synchronized with her heartbeat, helping Alex remember certain lyrics and _totally_ not enjoying how Helen and Lazar are toeing the line of should they, shouldn't they, as stars settle into the sky.

"Gonna grab a couple'a beers with Mason," Frank says into her ear, barely audible over the cacophony of voices and instruments, "you good with Park and Lazar?"

"Actually, I'm gonna get some fresh air! I won't be long!"

"We'll be here if you need us," is the last thing she hears before Alex drags him away, laughing heartily on her way outside.

Stepping into biting cold air after spending time in a suffocating, compartmentalized space is instant whiplash to her senses, releasing haggard breaths as she tugs her jacket closer.

Feeling so alive, electricity coursing through her veins... it's a luxury she doesn't often afford herself the opportunity to indulge in, and it _shouldn't_ make her feel so upset, so frustrated (but it does, all the same). All circling back to the wretched elevator, his warm and _wretched hands—_

_Alive. Deny it all, deny those stupid dreams because you're **alive,** goddamnit!_

**_Da Nang. Vietnam. Red door._ **

**_Berlin. Safehouse. Television screens._ **

**_Anya. Sister. Scarred hands. Red Dragon._ **

**_Smokescreen. Needle. Mind control. Perseus._ **

**_Him. Her killer._ **

Even with the wind whipping in her hair, hot tears against her cheeks, there's something airy, lightweight to it. Living, heart pumping, lungs intaking icy gulps of air that every living person instinctively experiences. Except it's restrained. Not existing beyond a certain point.

Out-of-place is the closest descriptive, and even that feels wrong. How can you be _existing_ but not exactly _living?_

It follows her, a shadow of her own design, makes her question all that she thought she knew. Was her doctor (lovely Dr. Trager, a woman who made living easier?) another figment of this new world? Anya, who shares her name with a sister lost in death?

 _Red Dragon_ , red door, red vase, red wound on her hand that didn't happen?

Wanting to believe, wanting so desperately to cling onto an idea of a world where she didn't have to meet such a bitter end on some rock, two bullets in her heart and throat at the hands of a man who felt just as desperate for a better answer than _that._

_Go back inside. Stop trying to remember. You'll only hurt yourself._

_Too little, too late,_ she thinks with a stifled snort, turning back on her heel as she wipes away tears melting into the iciness of her cheeks. Turning on her heel, directly into a firm, warm something, smelling faintly of nicotine and _crushing her into ash—_

Looking into _his_ smokescreen hidden eyes, wondering just _why the hell he's here_ , of all _goddamn places_ he could possibly be.

"You're here," she says, voice trembling with stifled terror, tone akin to accusatory.

"You have a habit of running into me," he replies, staying quiet on the blushing scarlet rising to her cheeks, but not her tears. "Concert's that bad, huh?"

 _It's not that_ , she wants to say. She wants to say many things, none of them can be properly conveyed as she hopes it could. Wanting to demean him for something he doesn't remember doing, wanting to condemn him for playing God with her life... above all else, wanting to know why he's so _familiar,_ why she wants to know what his **_lips_** taste like—

_And she still doesn't know his name._

"W-Why are you here?"

Wanting to curse herself for sounding even more accusatory, even if it's not entirely misplaced.

"Old pal from 'Nam invited me, along with a few others I've crossed paths with. Was thinking of not going..." he trails off, fishing into his pocket and pulling out a packet of Reds (how convenient). "... so much for that," he finishes, exhaling sharply.

_Of course he is the one Sims invited. Small fucking world._

Fate is a vindictive, cowardly thing.

Now, she _really_ wants to leave, considering running back inside and demand that Lazar take her back home—hell, she'll walk if it means she can leave now, get away from _him_. No, something anchors her to the ground, keeping her at arm's length.

"I was just leaving, anyway," she smartly remarks, finding the willpower to disobey fate, define her own destiny instead of leaving it in unseemly, incapable hands.

Of course, the moment she turns her back, willpower isn't enough.

"I know you."

It stops her in her tracks, puts her in a horrifying dilemma with a festering fear in her mind at the idea that he's being honest, that he _knows_ her the way she knows him. And when she looks back at him, she sees his eyes this time, devoid of aviator lenses.

"I don't know how, and I don't understand it... but I knew you even before you hit me in the elevator, before I even heard your voice stutter out an apology. And I know you're lying to me. You're lying to me about it, and those tears aren't from a shitty concert, or the fucking weather, or some asshole who got a little too close for comfort. It's me."

_**It's always been me.** _

Ashing his cigarette beneath his foot (having barely smoked it, regardless), taking one step closer, only to stop as she utterly _revolts_ , taking a step back.

"You are a constant," he reveals quietly, like the words are acidic in taste, unworthy of being spoken on his tongue. "You are unavoidable. Your voice, your eyes... it's too fucking haunting and I want to know why. I _refuse_ to be haunted by you."

And when he takes another step forward, something within beckons her forward as well, half a step compared to his full step.

"Who are you?" He asks, like all hope of getting an answer has already vanished.

**_It was never personal._ **

A whisper, moments before a cold muzzle imprints searing agony in her heart.

_**Heroes have to make sacrifices.** _

Tossing a barely smoked cigarette into plunging, devastating waters below. Horizons.

**_There will never be a world in which this is right._ **

His lips, pressing a solemn, chaste kiss into her skin. Death's warm welcome.

_Can't die if you're already dead._

There are no words for it, nothing that will condense years' worth of dishonesty, violence, and cruelty... an affinity, a connection between two people who were never meant to get this far. Never meant to last. Nothing can change it. So, she doesn't tell him. No words can compensate for it, and so she decides to make a horrifying, necessary leap of faith and steps towards him, hands twitching at her sides.

Wanting to curse his name, curse him for taking her life, molding it into a decaying, flayed deformity, an image of his choosing—wanting to know what his _lips taste like—_

"I am an instrument. I am an unbreakable curse, made in your design," she whispers.

Another step. Two more. Until they're inches apart, sharing heartbeats.

Bringing her bare hands to his face, lifting the veil that death has placed upon them. Skin on skin, waiting for him to finally _**remember**_ , just as she remembered. Voice regaining a proverbial strength, something she wasn't aware that she was capable of possessing, undiscovered until this point in time.

"I am **_not yours_** to destroy anymore."

_**It was never personal.** _

His eyes are a brighter hazel, now. Darkness rears its head, the veil slowly lifting.

**_Heroes have to make sacrifices._ **

Arctic air, clearing the head.

**_It was always for the greater good._ **

He must've known she knew what was coming.

**_We have a job to do._ **

Memories that never belonged to her, stripping her of identity, agency.

At long last, she knows what his lips taste like. Tears falling, his thumbs brushing them away, holding her close as if she'll disappear into nothing should he let her go. Oh, he already let her go once. Gave her to death, promising more than anything he'd ever be able to give her had he chosen to keep her.

Pulling away like he is the one with bullets in his heart, staring at her _knowingly_ , remembering _**everything,**_ and watching as her tears fall.

"Bell," he breathes, harrowing and dismal, "... I remember you, Bell."

_I remember you, Russell Adler._

Smiling—broken and disheartened as he attempts to come close, to _absolve_ himself of guilt that isn't his to carry. From one soldier to another, understanding that orders are orders, that even if he wanted to... wanted _her_... he couldn't. Even if it stings.

Screaming at him, cursing his existence and wanting to get even... it isn't worth giving up the life she's lived, isn't worth fulfilling death's wish for her to move on.

Understanding that her place is always going to be here. A cog in an ever-expanding machine until her time is done. And she doesn't feel particularly inclined to give in to death just yet. He is an embodiment, a caricature—and she will _**not**_ destroy herself for him. Not again.

"Come with me," he asks, voice barely above a whisper, "there's no rules here, Bell. No orders to carry out. There's just you and I... it doesn't have to end."

"You don't understand," she implores, tears blurring her vision, blocking her image of that _beautiful, harrowing face._ "This is the way it's got to be. It always was."

In a sickening mockery of her final moments—where he holds her heart in his hands, crushing it under his boot—she now holds his heart in her hands. But she refuses to hurt him. Not like that.

Instead, taking great care to return it to its rightful place—the land of the living.

And she does not walk with the living. Not anymore.

"I am a ghost, Russell," she sobs, feet almost set in-motion before her heart's ready to leave with it. "A memory, a figment. I don't belong in your world; I have no place there. This is where I am supposed to be. I _refuse_ to haunt you any longer..."

"You don't have to leave again, Bell. My place is wherever you are, don't you see that?"

_My place is wherever you are. Except it isn't._

Fate is a vindictive, cowardly thing. And it doesn't make mistakes. Perhaps, they were always meant to find each other, always meant to be. But not in this life. Two worlds that were never meant to collide, even if _they_ were meant to.

And so, with words that hold more meaning than she'll ever allow it, words that carry inevitability, a tangibility that stretches beyond her and him, she speaks.

 _"There will never be a world in which this is right,"_ she whispers.

Gravity centering her around him, like a planet orbiting its star. His hands grasping her face (memories the weight of tidal waves crashing against her frontal cortex), pressing a final, solemn kiss—to her lips, this time. For the last time.

"Go back," she whispers against his lips, "you belong in a better world."

He laughs, something hollow that rattles his chest, like she's just told him a horrific joke with a flat punchline. Fingers pressing into her jaw, against the column of her throat.

"There's no better world without you in it," he says, before pulling away from her.

_And she knows he's baring his soul to her, giving her the truth he didn't afford her in their past life._

Leaving her outside, meeting the group inside the center (oh, she so wishes the best for them, even if they will never know the truth), while she finds herself wandering amidst icy air and the first of the snowfall, weary smile through devastated tears and kiss-swollen lips.

And so, they go their separate ways—he to live, and she to die.

Only God knows which is better.

**Author's Note:**

> that's it, folks! if you've made it this far, i applaud you (LMAO XD) but also, i thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking time to read it, it means the world to me :) didn't mean to make it too long, but i couldn't help myself not gonna lie aha
> 
> so just to reiterate, i chose the canon ending, so that means bell is unfortunately dead :'( but for the sake of a good story, she isn't dead yet, and the world she's living in is basically limbo. she starts to realize that she's dead (the themes of red, her cat being named after her deceased sister, even meeting adler + the team), and is stuck between wanting to stay in limbo, or moving on as she should.


End file.
